Backwards
by lydiamartini
Summary: A single scene set just after the Season 3 finale of Warehouse 13. Let me know if you think I should continue this story!


Myka stepped off the circle of perfectly preserved gray floor, venturing out into the smoking wreckage of her world. This building, this super-sized Pandora's Box, this huge, off-the-charts Warehouse full of madcap which had served as her refuge for three years, gone. This site of so many memories, destroyed in a matter of minutes, consumed by the angry fire of the artifact bomb that she had failed to neutralize. It felt as though the weight of the world was pressing down on her shoulders; but how could that be, when the world had just gone up in flames? The guilt and grief pressed in on her from all sides, and she closed her eyes, as if blocking out the sight of the ruined Warehouse 13 could protect her from the misery. But still the image lingered, as if painted on the inside of her eyelids. She tightened her fist around Helena's locket, letting the edges of the square metal pendant dig into her palm.

Helena. That was what was at the heart of it all, really. Helena Wells. H.G. Wells. The source of all of this pain and loneliness and anger. Sykes hadn't just robbed Myka of her home, her job, her life; he'd robbed her of perhaps the one person she cared about most. Myka could see her face clearly, swimming before her closed eyes – beautiful and kind, smiling even as the flames washed over her and swept her away.

"That was his plan." Pete's voice invaded Myka's mind, and she opened her eyes, because the things she saw around her were far less painful to behold than the ones she saw in her mind. "Destroy the entire Warehouse." Myka gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to turn around to face her partner and scream at him, force him to understand. There had been a dozen Warehouses before this one, and there could be a dozen more! The end of Warehouse 13 simply meant the beginning of Warehouse 14. Whereas a human life… H.G.'s life… there was no way to abandon her and create a new version. She was just as far gone as the Warehouse, and she couldn't be replaced.

But she didn't. She simply stood there, nearly as lifeless as the scattered ashes of H.G. Wells, and listened as Pete spoke again. "We lost, Artie."

There was a silence that could've lasted anywhere from a minute to an hour to several dark, rainy days. Then there was another voice, Artie's voice this time, and the words that he said didn't really compute.

"Not yet."

Not yet. At last, Myka turned around, spinning to face Pete and Artie. What did he mean, not yet? 'Not yet' implied that there was still a hope of survival; that the battle was still raging, still waiting to be won. But how could it be? Helena was gone, consumed by the fire and spread around the broken Warehouse, and in the face of such a tragedy the entire world must have ground to a stop…

Artie, it seemed, had something in his hand, and was holding it up as if he wanted then to see it… It felt unimportant, inconsequential, but still Myka glanced down to see what it was. She wasn't quite sure what she had been expected – perhaps a magic wand, or an old, leather-bound book on raising the dead? – but it certainly wasn't a simple brass pocket watch on a chain. Myka was torn between anger, disbelief, and curiosity; how, when the entire universe had just been torn up into tiny pieces and scattered throughout the cosmos, could he expect her to care about a tiny trinket? But still, this was the Warehouse – at least, what was left of it – not your garden-variety suburban home, and this was Artie Nielsen, who would not be asking her to pay attention to a pocket watch were it not something more than just a pocket watch.

"Artie, what is that?" she asked, her voice hesitant and unsteady. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pete look up; having picked up on her shaky tone, he took a step towards her with a concerned look on his face, but she just took a step away. She loved Pete – he was her partner, her best friend – but this was not something he could remedy with a hug and a bit of lighthearted humor.

"I'm not sure," he replied. "I've got a hunch… let's hope I'm right…" He held up the pocket watch and grabbed onto the little knob on the side. "Cross your fingers," he added.

Myka crossed her fingers and her toes.

Taking a deep breath, Artie began to turn the knob.

And the watch began to turn back.

And the world around Myka began to turn back with it.

Myka, Pete, and Artie all stepped back into the circle of perfect floor, their backs to each other, as if guided by some unspoken order or command. Everything around them was speeding past backwards, like a television show on rewind. The first minute was simply the empty, ruined Warehouse; the next few were nothing by fire all around; and then, finally, the flames were sucked back into the cursed box from which they came, and someone who Myka had never expected to see again came into view, her arms at her sides, her last smile still etched upon her face.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" she urged, tapping Artie frantically on the shoulder, for she alone seemed to know how utterly crucial it was that he stopped and let her out of this rift in time that exact instant so that she could prove to herself that what she was seeing was really, truly there.

"Myka, we're still stuck in H.G.'s bubble," Pete reminded her, gesturing to the strange, semi-transparent blue dome that covered just the three of them.

"Pete's right, if we stop it now, we've got no way to prevent the explosion," Artie agreed, continuing to turn the dial on the pocket watch. "We've got to wait… just… a bit… longer… there!" The blue dome disappeared, speeding up from the floor, up to the point at the top where it had started, and then back down the fork of blue lighting to the wires in H.G.'s hands. Artie continued to turn the knob for a few seconds before stopping and allowing time to resume. H.G. began to move forward rather than backwards; she took a step forward with the long, thick black wires curled around her arms and then stopped, as if unsure of what she was doing there.

Myka felt a laugh bubbling up inside her – something which, two minutes ago, had seemed impossible – as she took a step forward, out of the now-invisible circle which had held her, Pete, and Artie. A split second later, she was running, and just a split second after that, she had reached her destination and was throwing her arms around Helena's neck. She heard a clatter as the wires that had been in Helena's hands hit the concrete floor, but she didn't care – in that moment, in that stolen, repeated moment in time, there was nothing but them. It didn't matter what Pete and Artie were doing; it didn't matter that just yesterday they had all lost a close friend; it didn't matter that there was a ticking bomb on the table, counting away the seconds they had left. None of it mattered, because in that instant, her arms were around Helena's neck, and Helena's hands were on her back, and her face was buried in Helena's hair. She smelled like flowers and Chinese takeout, and her body was warm and solid and real and alive. And despite all of the misery they'd been through, despite all the losses they'd sustained, Myka knew, somehow, everything would work out just fine.

There were so many cliché, emotional things that she wanted to whisper into Helena's ear – 'You're alive,' perhaps, or 'I was afraid I'd lost you'. None of the things that came to mind seemed adequate; none of them succeeded in saying exactly how she felt. So she simply made a choked noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sob, pressed her cheek against Helena's neck, and ran her thin, pale fingers through Helena's dark hair, and that seemed to say it all.

Eventually, it was Helena who pulled away, brushing black strands out of her face and gazing at Myka with the ghost of a smile dancing on her face. Without saying a word, she placed her delicate, cold hands on Myka's cheeks, leaned in, and pressed her mouth to Myka's.

Myka's shoulders shot up in surprise; her eyelids slid down over her brown irises and her hands, as if they had a mind of their own, found the sides of Helena's head, entangling themselves in her hair. H.G.'s kiss was bold and passionate, and Myka couldn't help but marvel at the way their lips fit together so perfectly, like puzzle pieces specifically crafted to click together and lock into place. The two of them, together in this way, was so ideal, so wonderful, so indescribably right. They were two of the same, corresponding shapes made just to fit neatly into the other's arms. They were everything and they were nothing; they were the same and they were different; they were heavy and they were weightless; they were water and fire and earth and air and all that there ever was, because nothing could be more important, more significant, than this beautiful embrace.


End file.
